


Else Swoon to Death

by reine_des_corbeaux



Series: My Tongue Could Utter [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sex Work, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Corsetry, Eye-Searing Lingerie, Forced Feminization, M/M, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29052771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/pseuds/reine_des_corbeaux
Summary: Jon laces Martin up. The corset is hideous and the feelings are complex.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: My Tongue Could Utter [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050707
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Else Swoon to Death

Jon looks at the corset, and rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to fight off the headache he feels creeping through his skull at the sight of the garment. Closing his eyes against it would be pointless-- the thing is bright enough to fairly glow, and he thinks he would see it even with his eyes shut. Next to him, Martin makes a noise that might either be interest or irritation, and Jon can tell that he too is examining the corset. 

“Er,” Jon says, hoping to break the stifling silence but for once utterly at a loss for words. 

“It’s very pink, isn’t it?” Martin says. There’s a matter-of-fact bluntness to his tone, and Jon cannot argue with his observation. 

The corset _is_ very pink indeed, a brilliant color too light to properly be called magenta, yet too dark to be any shade found in nature. _Perhaps in a very rare orchid,_ Jon thinks, and makes a mental note to check the encyclopedia, or, god forbid, make inquiries with Elias. Trimmed in black lace and stiff with whalebone, it could be lovely, but instead it glares and beams like something vomited from a particularly gaudy boudoir. It is a corset meant to be seen, and therefore, Martin must be seen in it. Jon’s heart revolts at the very thought. Images of hands besides his own running up the tortured curve of Martin’s tightlaced waist dance through Jon’s mind, and he shakes his head to clear it. The thoughts leave an oily residue behind, as though they will stain. 

“Yes, it is rather pink,” Jon says at last, holding the corset up to the light. “I don’t think you have anything in quite this colour to wear with it, do you?” 

Martin snorts. 

“Definitely not. Maybe in--” 

He trails off, and Jon knows that both of them are thinking of the same thing. In the dark oaken wardrobe on the other side of the boudoir, the black dress hangs stiffly, like the shadow between street lamps. Perhaps the paste jewels in its straps shine in the darkness still, gleaming like eyes. It would set the corset off nicely, swathes of black parting to reveal the vibrant pink, but Jon cannot bear to touch it for fear that it might burn his fingers with another searing flash of shame like the one he felt a fortnight ago. He cannot subject Martin to the gown’s embrace either, and he cannot risk imagining him in it, cannot risk remembering the bleak determination working its way into Martin’s calculated smile as Peter Lukas laughingly pulled Martin into his lap . And so, something else must be thought of. Another solution must be provided. Martin must have another black dress. 

“Do you know who wants you to wear this?” Jon asks, trying not to point at the corset in such an accusing manner. 

Jon also tries not to look too closely at Martin as he shimmies himself into a chemise. Even so, he catches a glimpse of pale skin and faded freckles, of the soft expanse of flesh at Martin’s midsection, and Jon’s mouth goes dry. He swallows, but quietly, and quickly averts his eyes before Martin can see him watching. Martin rearranges the chemise so that it hangs properly from his shoulders, and shakes his head. 

“Thought you would. I’m not the one Elias sends notes to.” 

The note had appeared on the tray for calling cards, addressed to Jon and mixed in with half a dozen cards from some of Martin’s more pedestrian admirers (though Jon is fairly certain he saw Lukas stationary on the tray). 

“It just told me that the corset would be delivered. Not who you were wearing it for, or why it’s so… pink.” 

Martin snorts again, a jarring, indelicate sound. 

“Just like Elias then, isn’t it. Keeping us both in the dark because he thinks it’s _amusing_.” He rolls his eyes. “It can’t be Peter, though. He’d hate the colour.” 

Jon bristles at the mention of Peter Lukas, though he tries to hide it. 

“And it wouldn’t be Salesa,” Jon muses, “because this isn’t the sort of present he’d send you. Unless it’s got, I don’t know, a knife in the busk or a hidden contraption in the laces. It’s altogether too ordinary. And Michael doesn’t send gifts, just corners you in alleys and whisks you away to who knows where.” 

There’s a glitter in Martin’s eye, as though he’s trying very hard not to laugh at Jon’s ramblings, and a slight smile plays across his lips. But it’s replaced only too quickly with a frown equal in slightness and a pensiveness in Martin’s gaze. 

“So it’s Simon or Elias,” Martin says. 

A chill descends upon the room. A distance, like a wall, descends between them. 

“I’d better lace you up, then, madam,” Jon says, remembering at last that he’s meant to keep to the etiquette and titles Elias once instructed him on, and reaches for the corset. In his hands, it’s heavy as Sisyphus’s rock, and just as daunting. 

Carefully, he loosens the laces and passes the thing, and all it signifies, to Martin, who wraps it quickly around his body and does it up with a brisk efficiency borne of long practice. He turns away from Jon, and grabs hold of the back of one of the dainty chairs scattered around his boudoir. And as he does every day, Jon stands behind Martin, and takes the laces of the corset in his hands. 

It pains him to dress Martin in this corset, for it is Jon’s duty to make Martin lovely, or to highlight the loveliness he already contains. And pink, the light petal-pink of a new spring flower, looks well on Martin, with his auburn hair and pale skin. But the pink of the new corset clashes horribly with his colouring, and washes him out instead of accentuating the flush of his cheeks. But even so, Jon tugs upon the laces, and the corset tightens slowly, and Martin takes deep, easy breaths as Jon cinches it ever further in. 

_Lace him tight_ , the note from Elias said, with three dark lines beneath “tight”. And Jon does just that, until Martin gasps for breath. 

“Jon, enough,” he says softly, and Jon gives the corset one last pull. 

Jon checks the lacing for tightness, and finally ties it off, leaving Martin encased in a shell of violent pink satin, glaring balefully at his reflection when he glances in the mirror. Martin tries to hide his expression when he looks at Jon, and Jon’s breath catches. _I want to rip that thing off you,_ Jon thinks. _I don’t want to call you madam, and I don’t want to dress you for your gentlemen, and I certainly don’t want to humiliate you with pink monstrosities._ But he can say none of it. He has no right to Martin’s heart or Martin’s body. He has no right to contradict Elias’s orders, because both he and Martin are Elias’s creatures. All he can do is dress Martin, and hope that Martin feels the ardor in Jon’s heart through Jon’s hands. 

Martin looks up at Jon, questioning, still beautiful even in his gaudy corset, and Jon tries not to smile. 

“I suppose,” he says, in lieu of anything about feelings, “I ought to find you a dress, madam.” 

Jon turns away before he can attempt to decipher the expression in Martin’s eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> As those who've read all installments of this series so far posted on AO3 might have guessed, Martin's corset is actually based on  
> [an extant one](http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O115832/corset-unknown/) from the 1890s! It's exactly as tacky as Jon thinks it is. 
> 
> This was originally written for the prompt "100 Words of Eye-Searing Lingerie." 
> 
> Title from "Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art" by John Keats.


End file.
